Sour
by darkangel38
Summary: A Chandler dark fic, centered around alcohol, bitterness and everything that comes with that. Please RR, summary is lousy without giving everything away.
1. Default Chapter

I just started writing in notepad and I came up with this story. I hope you like it. Right now I don't exactly know where I'm going, but I liked this idea so far so I posted it. If you review I greatly appreciate it, gives me motivation to post and well.. just generally makes me happy lol

And on with the story.

----SOUR----

"No, I do not wish to purchase the 6 second abs machine that will have my midsection toned and ripped in under 5 minutes a day without any other exercise or movement of any kind. And no, I think I might just pass on the Batter Pro, I find no reason for me to have to fill, shake and flip to have millions of chicken wings battered in under ten seconds."

Channel flipped.

"You know Bob, I think I might just be able to survive without owning the Magic Bullet Blender, the only blender that minces garlic, chops onion and grates cheese in just seconds. I don't need to make smoothies in 10 seconds, and I certainly don't need to make salsa in 3 seconds."

Flip.

"Now if I don't need to Magic Bullet 'miracle' Blender, I certainly don't need the Simply Shapers Bra, the amazing backless, strapless bra that will give me comfort and security in my day to day activities. Oh, well now you just about changed my mind, it will support my natural shape and help me create the shape I have always wanted!-"

Flip.

"I also do not need the Laser White System. My smile is already white and to die for."

Flip. A puff off the cigarette, the exhaled smoke drifting slowly up to the ceiling, more dominantly grey colored with all the lights off and the only light flashing throughout the room being the television.

"You know - very excited man - even if I owned a house, I would not need your Glass Wizard, the extra large cleaning head that cleans hard to reach window areas, tight areas, and large surfaces. I don't give a rats ass if the micro fiber bonnets clean better than ordinary cloths using water alone."

Flip. The beer bottle is raised as the foamy liquid slides down his throat. It's not even cold anymore. It tastes bitter. That's good, just like him.

"Oh look, the Golden Girls are still alive. What a beautiful moment. To see four senior citizens still on television at," a quick check to his watch, "four in the morning. I wonder who else is watching this joyous sitcom at this time of night. I wonder who is as LAME AS ME!" He yelled and splashed beer onto the carpet.

Back to the tv and an angry Flip.

"Ha, Threes Company, I can hardly believe it. Hey Jack, SLEEP WITH THEM ALREADY!"

Flip. Puff on the cigarette.

"Alf. What are you? An alien, a dog, or what? Oh come on, I can see your hand, get rid of the stupid furry Alf puppet already."

He scoffed and shut off the television.

Darkness, except for the little red cherry on the end of his cigarette that would light up his drunken face with every slow and seductive drag. Once the cigarette got down to the filter, he pulled it away and looked at it. Another cancer stick down. He took the filter and smashed it down into his open palm, twisting it as the hot ash grinded into his skin. The pain radiated up his arm to his skull, but it was satisfaction. Now he felt about as bad on the outside as he did in the inside. Bitter.

He grabbed his beer bottle in a drunken grasp and swung it up to his lips, tasting the alcohol with his tongue. He swigged the bottle almost vertical and the rest of the drink splashed down his throat making him drunker than drunk. Then the bottle hit the floor with a thud and rolled against the wall joining the bunch of others. A trail of leftover alcohol followed the bottle and the apartment reeked of it.

"I drink alone, yeah.." He stood up wearily from the recliner and stumbled, singing out George Thorogood's hit.

"With nobody else."

He took a step towards the couch.

"I drink alone, yeah.. with nobody else." He walked closer towards the door of the apartment in the darkness, expertly not smashing into anything.. yet.

"You know when I drink alone I prefer to be by myself."

He grabbed his jacket that had been thrown on the kitchen floor and put it on slowly, getting the arms wrong at first.

"Every mornin' just before breakfast.. I don't want no coffee or tea.." he continued to sing, though it sounded more like a drunken grunt. "Just me and and good buddy Wiser, that's all I ever need.. Cause I drink alone, yeah!"

Chandler threw open the apartment door and did a drunken dance as he shut it and went on his way.

--

The streets were just as dark as the apartment had been. He could have chosen to walk down the NY strip that was still busy with yellow cabs full of other drunken people, but wanted and needed the darkness that the back roads could provide.

He kept a cigarette dangling from his mouth and his hands stuck in his long coat pockets as he stumbled down the street, the occasional street light dancing and doubling before his eyes. He wasn't just drunk, he was totally shitfaced and loving it.

He stumbled over a chunk of plywood but quickly regained his footing, though his hands had flew out of his pockets.

"Hey punk."

Chandler stopped walking and swung around, cigarette almost falling from his lips.

"Hey look it's a pretty boy out for a late night stroll. Looks like an expensive watch there, fag."

Three tough looking pansy boys stood behind him.

Chandler looked down at his watch. Sure it was okay, but it wasn't packed with diamonds or anything.

"Yeah, what's your fucking point?" He took the cigarette from his mouth, and ashed it on the ground, almost teetering over again from the double vision.

(Maybe there wasn't three guys in front of him, but only one and half?)

"Give it here." One of the guys started walked towards him.

Chandler laughed and threw the cigarette off to the side somewhere.

"You wanna go? Come on," Chandler challenged. He knew he would get his ass beat to the ground. Especially in his condition. He didn't give a rats ass what happened to him. He 'drank alone'.

"Oh so he wants to play hardball eh?" Guy #1 laughed to one of his buddies and then pounded his fist into his hand and looked back at the obviously wasted man in the trench coat in front of him. "Your wish is my command."

And they advanced.

--


	2. 2 Lethal Injection Will Do

----SOUR---- Chapter 2

"Oh, is that supposed to make me scared?" Chandler slurred and threw his arms up in the air. "Hey world, some fucking latino guys are threatening to kick my ass. I'm shaking in my booties!" he almost tripped over a small rock and his head rolled back in a drunken dazed stare at the sky.

"You better be shaking pretty boy, we're going to knock you up good," Thug #1 beat his fist again as if that was supposed to intimidate Chandler and his manhood.

Chandler howled into the sky and spread his arms again.

"I'm going to be pregnant? Oh glory be! I'm gonna be a daddy!-"

He stopped abruptly and gave the coldest, darkest stare to Thug #1 who was supposibly the one who was going to throw the first punch.

The first sign of rain began to fall as if the skies had cracked at the sight of the bitterness and challenge on Chandler's face. He was shitfaced drunk.. but he wasn't in the mood for games. If they wanted to kill him, might as well get it over with.

"Shut the fuck up, and give me that watch - punk."

Thug #1 shoved Chandler hard on the shoulder and puffed up his chest covered up mostly by a faded jean jacket. Probably found in a dumpster somewhere. That was the way he looked, like he had just crawled out of the New York sewers. Smelled the part too.

"And what if I don't?" Chandler took a step back from the shove and almost tripped again.

"Then. I'm going to have to take it. from you." He shoved Chandler harder, and this time he stumbled backwards, but didn't fall.

He wasn't much of a fighter. Getting picked on in school, he never fought back. Maybe he had attempted to throw a punch once or twice, but nothing that saved his ass from the daily beatings courtesy of the cruel brats in junior high school.

"Take your best shot, you piece of trash," Chandler grit his teeth and spat.

Before he even got the words out, Thug #1's fist connected to his face and he fell backwards on the pavement, slamming his elbows onto wet rocks. It was now raining consistantly and a cool breeze blew.

His lip ran blood and he seemed to lose his sight momentarily, seeing a blast full of colors and stars in front of his eyes. He felt the pain at his cheekbone, but it didn't concern him.

Before he could react or spit out another reason for the "bully" to hit him, a metal toed boot slammed into the left side of his ribs, and Chandler curled up and clutched his middle, all of his breath leaving his body in a split second.

Thug #1 laughed into the night and Thug #2 wrestled the watch off of Chandler's left limp arm. The 3 laughed to eachother at the pathetic scene on the ground and took off walking casually back into the shadows where they had come from.

No sound escaped his lips as he struggled for breath, even though internally he didn't know why. He had no need to live any more. Drunk, fucked up and laying beat in an alley at four in the morning was not his idea of a good life. And now the watch he had gotten as a birthday birthday present from Joey had been stolen. Ripped right off his arm. Joey had saved forever to get him that present. And now it was gone in a second - just like their friendship had turned out.

As he lay there on the ground, breathing only enough to live, but not yet comfortably, he reflected on past events that had lead him to this lower than low point. What had triggered the drunken nights, two packs of cigarettes a day, the bitter thoughts about every human he came in contact with and the severe depression that lead him to just. not. care. He didn't know exactly, but knew that the demon was with him now and had no plans on going anywhere.

--

He was being poked. A flashlight was shining directly into his face, and once he finally snapped with the program, he grimaced and fell to the right side from his sitting position against a building, shielding his eyes with his arm. That triggered his ribs to scream and he almost bit his hand. 'Kill me. Kill me now' he muttered within his mind.

"Hey kid." So there was a voice behind that flashlight. The bright light that had burned his eyes just seconds before moved to a section on the wall. "Hey, get up."

Chandler sat up straight again, now noticing the light off his face and looked at whoever was standing directly in front of him. Well just fucking perfect, it was a cop just waiting to handcuff him and haul him off to jail for bumming around in an alley in the middle of the night. They'd find something to charge him with. Plant a pound of cocaine in his pockets.. Put him out of his misery and give him the lethal injection on a cold metal corpse table. Strap his arms down so he couldn't thrash - but of course he wouldn't. 'Put it in my last beer,' he'd tell the guard 3 weeks before his due date was up -

"What are you doing out here at this time of night? You got no place to go?" The cop shut off his flashlight deciding he didn't need it anymore. Beind him his cop car stood looming like a giant trophy, headlights going as far as the eye could see.

'Hey shitface, can't you see my goddamn mutilated face?'

"Yeah I have a place of residence, if that is what you're asking." He responded, luckily not feeling quite so drunk anymore. If he was, he would surely be thrown in the back of the cruiser. Plant a murder on his record with no body found.. -

"Looks like you got jumped, do you know who did it?" The cop continued. His silver hair getting brighter and brighter the more Chandler looked at it.

"Just some street gang or something," Chandler answered back and stared straight ahead across the alley, watching a stray cat jump through a garbage bin.

"You get home now you hear? No reason for you to be out laying in alleys at this time of night. Do you need a lift?"

Chandler shook his head, still watching the cat look for a late dinner, or an early breakfast.

The cop hesitated, but then "holstered" his flashlight and took a step toward his car.

"Lay off the alcohol, you reek like you've been soaking in a whiskey tub for five hours."

With the cop's final word, he got back into his cruiser and continued on his patrol down the alley, the lights disappearing with him.

Chandler rested his head against the rough brick wall of the building and closed his eyes. Truth be told, he didn't want to go back home. He knew that Joey would be home by then. He would find all of the empty beer bottles, the overflowing ashtrays.. He didn't feel like answering any questions.

'Chandleerrr what are you doing to yourself? Where is the old Chandler? I liked him better.'

'The old Chandler is dead.'

He struggled to lift himself up, using a crate next to him for help, when his ribs stabbed into his insides. They weren't broken, but they sure felt like it. Great, now he was going to have to walk around with this crap.

Then standing, he looked at his left hand, where he had grinded the cigarette butt into his palm earlier. He ran his fingers over the nasty wound that was probably an angry black right about now, of dead flesh.

Satisfaction. The only thing he could completely control in this world. Was the cigarette burn on his palm.

--


End file.
